Hanging by Thread, Feeling Like a Fool
by arcturusregulus
Summary: He's sleep-deprived, he's tired and, okay, maybe he should try to actually be prepared for these meetings. But, while others would try to be mentally prepared, he just wants to be helpful.


**Title: Hanging by thread (feeling like a fool)**

**Fandom: Teen Wolf; set a bit after the end of season 2**

**Characters: Stiles Stilinski, Derek Hale, Scott McCall, Lydia Martin, Isaac Lahey, Jackson Whittermore, Boyd, Erica Reyes**

**Summary: He's sleep-deprived, he's tired and, okay, maybe he should try to actually be prepared for these meetings. But, while others would try to be mentally prepared, he just wants to be helpful.**

**Notes: There's a panic attack inside. I've never actually had one, but I did quite a bit of research, so I just hope that I didn't completely screw it up. Also, I have no idea what is wrong with the summary…I tried? Anyway, this was written in a spur of a moment, so I don't even know how I feel about it.**

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His father always reminds him not to drive when he is tired and maybe that's what's bothering Stiles. But maybe he's just too tired to be bothered by that. He tries to recall the last time he slept properly, but fails; not only does Adderall make it harder for him to fall asleep, but, as of lately, he's been pushing himself harder and harder to just help. Because he is essentially useless unless he figures out something about this Alpha pack. He's human, he's frail, he's tired, he can't even focus on things like a normal person and he just wants to help.

He hates being useless.

His jeep stops in the driveway of the Hale house (it's not even a house anymore, he thinks to himself, more of a ruin) and he slams the doors behind him. He walks up the door, not even bothering to knock before he enters. It only takes a few steps for the rest of the pack to come into view and he greets them with a "Hey," and a bright smile. He only gets tight ones in return (his isn't completely honest, either, but at least he tries).

Stiles shrugs it off and he enters the room they're all in, taking a seat on the dirty floor, his back leaned against the wall. "Have you found out anything new?" he asks, looking mainly at Derek. By their sour faces, he already knows the answer, but Scott still speaks.

"No, nothing new…You?"

Stiles shrugs. He wishes he can go off and tell them the lengthy history of Alpha packs, but he can't, so, instead, a dark shadow passes over his face. Useless. "I have a few theories about what do they want, but no facts." It's a bit hard to say, but he sees no use in beating around the bush. He sees Derek's jaw tighten and the faces of the pack show disappointment and he feels his chest tighten. Dammit.

"Share it, then, if you think it isn't absolute bullshit." He almost glares at Jackson because his voice tells him that the kamina-turned-werewolf (Stiles just wishes that that story isn't as tragic, so he can torture Jackson with it for the rest of his life) boy doesn't believe that anything that comes out of Stiles' mouth isn't complete bullshit. Instead, he ignored him, just like he ignores the idle panic it causes him. Maybe all of his theories are complete bullshit and voicing them would be a waste of time.

He shakes off the thought, however, and nods (as a reassurance to himself, more than anything). "Well, the first thought to come to my mind was that they heard about…" He isn't sure how to say that without doing something wrong, but he sees no way to walk on egg-shells and he throws a quick glance over to Jackson. "About the whole Kamina ordeal. And, you know, they're interested and stuff, because it is pretty interesting, and they haven't heard that all that is over and now they want something with Jackso — the Kamina. The Kamina." He ignores the sharp intake of breath coming from Jackson and Lydia's frown and he keeps his eyes on anything else but them.

"Then I thought that maybe somehow word of Peter coming back to life — I have no idea how fast does gossip travel in the supernatural world, honestly — reached them and they think that's pretty fucking awesome, which it sort of is, and want to find out how he did it because, well, you know, who doesn't want to have the ability to come back from the dead?"

He has at least a dozen other theories, but he doesn't get a chance to tell them.

"I really see no use in this conversation." It's Erica and, sure, Stiles was never her biggest fan, but her words are a giant blow to him because, fuck, it's like she knew what was the thing he wanted to hear the least. "We want to know how to stop them, not what the hell would they ask from a genie."

"Well, it's sort of useful to know what they're after to know how to stop them, don't you think?" There's a certain bite to the words and Stiles thinks he could kiss Lydia right now (except that he couldn't, for too many reasons to name them all) and he sends her a small smile. Erica just rolls her eyes, not commenting, surprisingly enough.

"I doubt they heard about Peter," Derek says, not paying attention to either of the girls and looking just at Stiles. "But the Kamina theory might actually be true." Might actually be true. Like it is so hard for Stiles to actually say something believable and the boy feels a bit annoyed. He's just tired and, okay, that may be why he's getting so annoyed so easily (he's usually quite laid-back, he likes to think), but he'd like to see someone else try to deal with a pack of annoying werewolves while sleep-deprived. Honestly, he'd pay for that (maybe not much, but still).

"What when they realise that there is no Kamina anymore?" Scott's the one to ask the question and Jackson is staying uncharacteristically quiet during this discussion, but no one is really surprised about that.

Derek frowns a bit and Boyd speaks up.

"They didn't seem too friendly when Erica and I ran into them." That isn't really an answer (at least Stiles hopes it isn't).

Silence engulfs them all and Stiles doesn't like it — where the hell is Peter, he'd usually save him from this. He scans the room in case he simply didn't notice him, but he still doesn't find him.

"We're all going to die, aren't we?" Everyone's eyes turn to Erica and she breaks under the combination of glares and stares (Stiles supposes that Derek's death glare has the most effect). "I was just saying, Jesus, calm down." Her words don't exactly make it better, but she mostly gets rolled eyes in response and the tension the question caused is gone. For most of them. For Stiles, it isn't. The question repeats in his mind and he just wishes he could find something that would actually help. _We're all going to die, aren't we?_ Will they? He doesn't know and he sort of doesn't want to know, but it's like her voice won't get out of his head and his chests tighten and so does his throat and, fuck, it would be all his fault if they did, wouldn't it? They relied on his information and he has none and he has to find it quickly, but he can't and, suddenly, he can't breathe, anymore.

A shake ripples trough him and he tries to remember how to breathe (in and out, in an out, why the hell is it so hard?); he doesn't even register that he is shaking, but he tries to focus on the pain that his nails are causing against his the skin of his palm — it's useless, he can only focus on his lack of oxygen.

He isn't shaking of his own accord anymore, but his eyes are closed shut and he can't bring himself to check who's the poor soul that has to deal with him this time. His father is usually the one, but, in the back of his mind, he knows that can't be true this time, but Stiles doesn't think right now. He can't think, he can't be rational. Because he can't breathe and he feels like he's going to stop any second now; drown without even being in the water. His temples press down and he thinks his head is going to explode _(If you're going trough hell, keep going_; didn't the counselor ever wonder why could he describe the sensation of drowning, not being able to breathe, so well?).

The panic grows with each passing second and the feeling is familiar but yet such a novelty every time. It hits him hard, consumes him, and every bad thing he ever thought of is suddenly in his mind, blending with each other and growing larger; darker, more dangerous, bigger, and it only increases his panic.

He's going to die. He knows it.

Just like his mother did, just like everyone will. He won't be able to save them, they will die, and it will be all his fault — like it was when the beat of his mother's heart stopped (it's hard to take care of a child when your health is so fragile, Stiles never even wanted to think of how hard it must have been to take care of a hyperactive child — except that he did, and he does, too many times to count).

All his fault, all his fault. His throat closes up even more (he didn't think it was possible) and his nails dig deeper into his skin.

He doesn't register anything around him.

And then a loud slap fills the room and panic is still overwhelming Stiles, but he thinks he can feel something other than it and he reminds himself to calm down. Breathing exercises (1-2-5, was it? He can't remember) are supposed to help, but they don't and he tries to save himself before he only starts feeling panic again.

He acts quickly then (this isn't his first time, after all), trying to speak. "My backpack." His eyes are closed once again and he doesn't even know if anyone understood what he said, but, then, seconds afterwards, he can feel the familiar oval-shaped pill in his hand and he puts it under his tongue, the bitter taste making his face turn sour.

He is still shaking.

Stiles doesn't move; minutes pass and he sits on the floor, his knees drawn up to his chest, his elbows resting on them, his eyes closed, and his face scrunched up in a grimace.

Finally, he opens them. He doesn't want to at first (he knows they're all here), but he manages to and he is met with the sight of seven pairs of worried eyes staring at him (Derek's are the closest and Stiles guesses that he's the one who slapped him — he probably wanted to do that for a while). He wants to get up and leave the house and just stay silent and he wants them to stay silent, too, but he knows that's not about to happen because they're a bunch of over-protective wolves and he almost wishes that they would go back to hitting him over the head with parts of his own car and ignoring him while staring at their girlfriends (obsessions, more like, he thinks as he eyes Scott).

But then he looks down (when did he get so cowardly?) and he's only half-surprised when he sees that his hands are tainted with deep red blood (his own, he knows; did he really clench his fists that hard?).

Stiles clears his throat, wishing that someone would say something, so they can get this over with. No one does (he will have to make Scott pay for this later on, what a useless best friend, honestly). "Well…," he starts and he doesn't even have the strenght to regret how lame that sounded, because he's just so tired and all he wants is a bed and some rest and, goddammit, why isn't anyone talking?

"Dude, you all right?" Perhaps he won't have to torture Scott later on, after all, but he still notes that it took the werewolf too long (in the back of his mind, though, he knows that Scott was just shocked; he only saw Stiles had a panic attack once and that was a mild one and three years ago).

"Peachy." Okay, he may not be in the friendliest of moods, but that's totally justified right now. Idly, he thinks about standing up, but he decides that's too much for now. Instead, he takes a deep breath and throws the pack an unimpressed look. "Loitering is illegal in some states, you know? Pretty sure that California is one of them, actually…"

"We aren't in a public place." It's not really the reaction he was going for, but he still barely holds in a grin at Lydia's words. At least someone wasn't acting as if the world would end if they acted normally.

"No, I suppose we aren't." His wit isn't exactly at its best, but he's still slightly shaking and he wonders if they will even let him go home. He stands up…or at least tries to. He intends to do it with the swiftness of a coursing river, but he stumbles half-way up and, as if that isn't embarrassing enough, Derek catches him (he totally could have supported himself against the wall). He pushes away the Alpha's arm weakly, letting him know that he doesn't need the help. "I'm fine."

Derek merely arches an unimpressed brow and Jackson snorts.

"Dude," he starts. "You just had..whatever you just had. An attack of some sort? I don't know, but you're not fine." Stiles sucks in his cheeks in annoyance and shrugs.

"I'm fine," he repeats. Yeah, sure, he can't really remember the last time he had a panic attack, but he's completely, utterly, undeniably, fine. Except that he's totally not, and he knows that and they all know it, but he doesn't want to voice it and he hopes that his glare is sufficient to stop anyone else from doing it, too. But, of course, he forgets about the all mighty Alpha in front of him.

"Shut up, Stiles, you're not fine." He scowls at Derek.

"But I am. I'll just go home and — "

"Do you actually expect us to let you drive right now?" Isaac asks and Stiles sighs.

"Okay, then, someone here will have to drive me because I have this thing where I try not to stay in this house any longer than I absolutely need to." He casts a glance at Derek. "No offense or anything, man, but it's pretty creepy." Who the hell lives in a ruin of a burnt house? Derek just rolls his eyes.

"I'll drive you," Scott offers and Stiles merely shrugs, thinking of ways he could tell Scott that he's a terrible person for letting his best friend stay in agonising silence for 46 seconds (yes, he counted) whilst having seven werewolves stare at him after a panic attack. That's not very soothing, honestly.

But, as he sits on the passenger seat of his jeep, the smallest of smiles graces his features. Because, really, they were actually worried, the pack was worried about him and it's right then and there that he realises that he is pack.


End file.
